


Fight

by seekingsquake



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Love, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:31:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3683505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekingsquake/pseuds/seekingsquake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always a fight-- they don't know any other way. But this. This never is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing. I just have a lot of feelings.  
> Everything belongs to Marvel.  
> Please do not repost or reupload this piece anywhere without consent. If you ask, I'm sure we can work something out :]

When Tony blinks his eyes open, Bruce has rolled away from him. He’s on his side near the edge of the bed, the sheet low over his hip, his arm under his pillow. Tony’s conscious but not quite awake, still so near to sleep that he’s not sure if he’s dreaming or not. He slides over and fits himself right up against Bruce’s back, slips his arm over Bruce’s waist, lets his lips move sleepily over the soft skin of Bruce’s neck and shoulder. Bruce shifts minutely, lolls his head a little more to the side to give Tony more room. He’s not even awake and he’s still trying to make things easy.

He’s not coherent enough to think about things like love, or even sex. He just wants to be close.

He keeps brushing kisses, feather light and almost not there, over Bruce’s skin. He’s got such beautiful skin; sunkissed and smooth and healthy. Bruce’s beauty is effortless, and only so blindingly apparent when he’s safe and relaxed. Only around Tony, only for Tony.

Tony knows he’s not the only one who’s seen Bruce as he is, calm and pure and beautiful. Betty Ross had loved him with a ferocity that was almost frightening. She had known. But now, these days, Bruce gives that part of himself only to Tony. Sometimes even that’s too hard, too much. Sometimes Bruce shines so bright that even Tony has to look away.

It’s all so easy now, though. He opens his eyes only every few moments, and Bruce is only now beginning to wake. Tony hopes he lets himself float in it, is awake enough to want this to be easy for both of them. Loving each other, wanting each other, more often than not it’s a fight. They don’t know how to make it not. Everything for both of them always has been, so why would love be any different? Tony wishes it could be different. Bruce deserves it to be different.

“Tony,” his voice is barely even a whisper, more of a breathy exhale than anything else. “Tony.” It’s the most beautiful sound Tony’s ever heard.

Bruce slips over and onto his back, slow, sleepy hands reaching for Tony, drawing him by the chin closer to his face. The first kiss they share is gentle, quiet, chaste. Just lips brushing lips, breath mingling. It’s not enough though, not what Tony wants to say, wants to do. He lets himself roll, holds himself over Bruce, slotted between his legs, still lax with sleep. He lets his lips brush the skin of Bruce’s cheek, the curve of his brow, the bridge of his nose. He leaves a trail of them along Bruce’s hairline from temple to temple, down the square line of his jaw, along the column of his throat. Each little kiss is a reassurance, a promise, the only way Tony knows how to say what he needs to in a way that Bruce will hear.

Bruce’s hands are slow and gentle over the skin of Tony’s back, fingers weaving softly into Tony’s hair. Bruce is so tactile, but quiet about it. He deprives himself of the comfort of touch in all moments except the ones akin to this moment here, keeps his hands to himself a good twenty three hours a day, seven days a week. Sometimes even more. To feel Bruce’s hands on him is a gift, a pleasure he’d never dare ask for. Tony knows it’s got nothing to do with Bruce’s desire or with Tony or with almost anything at all. It’s all about what Bruce thinks he deserves. And Bruce will never admit to deserving this, never believe that he does.

It’s always a fight, except in these moments.

Tony moves almost too slowly to matter, kissing down Bruce’s chest steadily but hoping that Bruce doesn’t notice until he can’t deny the direction this is going. Letting Bruce float. They’ve talked about this, awkwardly and over days, sometimes shouted at each other about it. They don’t know how to not fight. But this, they couldn’t fight this, couldn’t fight the feeling, the need that drives this. The need to be close. The need to express themselves in a way the other couldn’t dare miscontrue.

Tony’s not coherent. All he can think about is love.

Bruce’s abdomen is a thing of beauty, really. Toned in an understated sort of way, muscle that is soft in relaxation and that invites the attention of gentle teeth. His skin jumps under touch, a reaction that paints a picture of touch starvation and underutilized sensitivity. Bruce’s hips fit just perfectly in Tony’s hands like they were made to be held there, and the small gust of breath that Bruce can’t help but let out when Tony nips carefully at them is worth the time it takes to get there. He hovers there for a few long moments before he sinks even lower, wraps his hands around Bruce’s thighs and spreads his legs slowly.

One of Bruce’s hands presses flat but relaxed against the wall behind the head of the bed, the other pets at Tony’s scalp, twines in his hair. He exhales through his nose at the first touch of Tony’s lips to the base of his cock, lets out a soundless little, “Ah,” as Tony kisses up his shaft and laps gently at his head.

It’s a slow process, decadent, not much sucking but a lot of attention paid. He carefully spreads Bruce’s legs a little wider, shifts, sucks gently at his balls before taking Bruce’s cock in his hand as his mouth moves down even farther. Bruce never speaks, not really, never anything beyond Tony and Baby and Love you. And he’s floating, but he’s present enough to fumble around the bedside table until he finds the lube and a couple of condoms. Tony isn’t sure if they’ll go much farther than this tonight just yet, but he accepts the offerings anyway. He pets at Bruce’s hip for a moment before lubing up his fingers and slipping just his index inside. Bruce makes a sound of relief, a sound that says he’d been waiting for that exact moment, and they could stop right now and both go back to sleep and feel wonderfully content. But they don’t need to stop right now, and Tony still has more he wants to say.

All he can think about is love. All he can think about is making sure Bruce knows.

He’s learned Bruce’s body inside out. He laps at Bruce’s cock and presses gently against Bruce’s prostate, and earns the first moan of the night. It’s low and quiet, almost missable, but Tony had been listening for it. He loves that sound. That’s what walls coming down sound like. That’s what no fight sounds like. Bruce. Just Bruce. That’s his sound. Tony lives for that sound.

He does it over and over, slow, soft, until Bruce’s hand slips from his hair and cups his chin, draws him up. Their lips meet again, finally, and Bruce’s eyes shine even in the dark. He whispers, “I don’t want it to end yet,” and Tony can only silently agree, can only kiss his jaw and neck and shoulder and add another finger, let his hand fall away from Bruce’s cock. Bruce’s throat is working hard to swallow, to not whine, and Tony just keeps kissing him, wills him to relax back into it. To not fight. Please don’t fight. Accept it. You deserve it. We deserve each other. He wants to believe it, he wants Bruce to believe it. He wants them both to feel it. He adds a third finger.

“Tell me,” he whispers, and Bruce whines against his skin. “Tell me what you want.”

Bruce doesn’t even hesitate. “Love me.”

Tony kisses him hard, fierce. “You know I do. I do. You know I. I love you. Love you.” He can hardly breathe. He hardly wants to breathe. He’d gladly choke on this feeling every day for the rest of his life. “You know I do.”

“Make love to me. Tony. Tony.”

He kisses Bruce until he can’t anymore, kisses him breathless as he slips on the condom and slides home. Because that’s what Bruce is. Home. Home.

Bruce always needs it to last as long as it can. He asks Tony to carry him to the edge over and over and over but never let him fall, asks Tony not to tumble over until he has no choice. And when it finally happens it’s like being gutted, it’s like having your insides burned out, it’s. Bruce once said he saw God, and God had Tony’s voice. It’s not something Tony’s ever felt before, not something he can articulate. But when he can finally open his eyes again Bruce always has tears on his cheeks and a breathy, breathless laugh on his tongue. He’s hazy and pretty much melted into the bed, and Tony’s shaking too much to get up and clean them up. Every single time.

They curl up beside each other, tangled together, so close that nobody knows whose part of whose body is where. Tony can’t tell which little ba-dump is his heartbeat and which is Bruce’s. He sometimes thinks that each one belongs to both of them. He rakes his fingers through Bruce’s curls, kisses his face everywhere he can reach, whispers, “I love you.”

And Bruce always, always answers with, “I know. I love you too. Thank you.” Always.

They’ll find something to fight about tomorrow. They’ll find some reason to doubt themselves in the morning. But these moments stay with them. They never doubt each other. They never doubt this feeling. It’s worth fighting for. Always.


End file.
